Page 87 of Letting Go

“Surprise!”

A tiny, warm body launches itself onto the bed, full throttle, knees and elbows and joy. “Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy!” my five-year-old bellows directly into my ear, all lungs and excitement and maple syrup breath.

I pretend to be shocked, hands to chest, dramatic gasp. Even though I’ve heard them plotting this for the last two days. Even though I saw the glitter glue massacre that was the “secret card project” in the kitchen. Even though my son inherited Caden’s lack of volume control and told me three separate times yesterday that he “wasn’t planning anything.”

Still. My heart squeezes, tight and soft all at once.

Then Caden appears in the doorway, my husband, still disgustingly hot in the cruel, effortless way only former playboys-turned-devoted-girl-dads can be.He’s got bed hair and a tray in his hands, piled with what I’m guessing are pancakes and a cup of coffee that smells like actual salvation.

Tucked against his chest is one of our six-month-old daughters, her sleepy little face smooched into his shoulder, legs in ruffled bloomers kicking lazily. And right behind him, just when I think I’ve taken in all the sweetness this moment can possibly hold, Keira steps into view.

She’s holding our other six-month-old.

Imagine our surprise when the IVF worked, not just on thefirsttry, but gave ustwobeautiful babies. Twins.Actualtwins. I was terrified. And then we just… figured it out. Like we always do. With late-night feedings and name debates and onesies that never stay buttoned. With panic and patience and love so fierce it makes my chest ache.

Keira smiles at me, her arms wrapped around my daughter like she was born to hold her. “She wouldn’t stop crying until I picked her up,” she says, quietly proud. “She likes me better.”

I laugh. Ialwayslaugh when Keira’s with them. I think I’ll never get over the strange, beautiful ache of seeing her in our home, with my children, when eight years ago I was pretty sure I’d never hear from her again.

They all clamber in; my wild, chaotic family, and I get kissed approximately seven hundred times in various places: cheek, forehead, nose, collarbone. My son climbs over my legs like a Labrador and drops theglitter-encrusted card in my lap with the kind of pride only toddlers and drunk artists possess.

Keira hands me a small box. Inside is a delicate bracelet, rose gold, with four tiny charms, two girls, one boy, and a heart.

“You’re the mom I needed,” she says, eyes glassy but steady. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

God. She wrecks me.

I reach for her hand, squeezing it tight. There’s so much I want to say, but I don’t need to. She sees it in my face. We’ve learned to read each other in silence, our love language shaped in heartbreak and stitched back together in therapy and time and mercy.

Her journey wasn’t easy. Therapy chipped away at the iceberg until her core was exposed; raw, scared, furious. There were days she wanted to give up, nights she texted me “I can’t do this” with the period like a punch to the chest. But she didn’t quit.

Shefought.

Fought herself. Fought the shame. Fought the version of her that kept looking in the mirror and only seeing what she had done, not who she was becoming.

And now, eight years later, she’s Dr. Keira Scott. Not the kind of doctor our parents pushed on her. Not the surgeon they wanted, or the academic they paraded in brochures. No,herkind. The one shechose. A child psychologist. A damnbrilliantone.

And I’ve never been prouder.

Once I’ve had my delicious, slightly-too-sweet breakfast, complete with a pancake bite dramatically hand-fed to me by Rhett, my little golden tornado of a son, Keira claps her hands and says, “Alright, the dogs are about two seconds from tearing the living room apart. Let’s take them to the backyard.”

Rhett cheers and launches off the bed, yelling something about throwing sticks and being the fastest boy in the world.

Our two dogs, Roxy and Ruby, are barking downstairs in perfect chaotic stereo. Ruby, despite beingthree timesthe size of her mother, still turns into a sheepish puppy at one warning growl from Roxy, our original girl, our bossy queen, the canine embodiment of me before coffee.

Keira gathers up Cala and Lily, our two sleepy baby girls, one in each arm like some magical, maternal goddess-warrior. Rhett is already at the door, bouncing like a pinball, calling, “Come on, Keewa! I’m gonna race Ruby!”

Caden and I exchange a look;how did we get so lucky?

When they’re gone, the room shifts, quieter, slower, softer.

Caden sets the breakfast tray aside and stretches out beside me, pulling me close until I’m nestled against his chest, his fingers tracing slow circles on my hip.

We don’t speak at first. There’s no need. His heartbeat against my cheek says everything.

Finally, he murmurs, “You know, sometimes I still can’t believe you said yes.”

I smile. “To what? The job, the baby, or the insanely hot boss I was definitely not supposed to fall for?”

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